Майкл Ридпат - The Wanderer

‘We should speak to her again,’ said Vigdís.

‘You’ve lied to us consistently, haven’t you?’

Eygló flinched at Magnus’s question. ‘I did lie about not knowing Carlotta. I am sorry about that.’

‘It wasn’t just about Carlotta.’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘You told us you were not sleeping with Einar.’

‘That’s right, I did,’ said Eygló. She swallowed.

‘I saw him leaving your hotel room this morning,’ said Vigdís.

‘I can explain that...’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Magnus. ‘You lied to us about knowing Carlotta. You lied to us about your relationship with Einar. Now I have another question for you and you had better not lie this time. Did you kill Carlotta?’

‘What?’ Eygló raised her eyebrows in surprise. Whether feigned or not, Magnus couldn’t tell.

‘You heard me. Did you kill Carlotta?’

‘No,’ said Eygló. ‘No! Absolutely not. That’s ridiculous. Why would I kill her?’

‘Jealousy?’ said Vigdís. ‘She was a rival.’

‘I’ve told you I do not have a sexual relationship with Einar! Yes, he came to my room last night. Yes, I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I let him stay overnight. He was upset about Carlotta and about his interview with you and I comforted him. He needed me, he said. But we didn’t have sex; we didn’t even kiss.’

‘No?’

‘Look, I know I can’t necessarily convince you about what happened in my room last night. But I didn’t kill Carlotta. As far as I’m concerned, she was welcome to Einar.’

‘Did you two discuss it?’ Vigdís asked. ‘Did Einar suggest you kill her for him?’

‘No, no, no!’ Eygló gritted her teeth and bunched her fists in frustration. ‘I know you have to ask questions like that, but that is completely stupid. I did not kill Carlotta. I just didn’t.’

Magnus was impressed by Eygló’s anger. Just for a moment he felt bad about accusing her, but he swiftly put the thought behind him. Vigdís was absolutely right: they needed to pursue this line of questioning as far as it would go.

‘OK. Tell us exactly what you did when you returned to the hotel in Saudárkrókur the night Carlotta was killed.’

Eygló repeated her claim that she had stayed in her room all evening. She said she had been on her phone, on Twitter. She had seen Einar going out. She had read a novel in bed for half an hour, checking Twitter, and had then gone to sleep.

‘Do you believe her?’ Vigdís asked when they had let her go.

‘I don’t know,’ said Magnus. The truth was he did believe her, but he also recognized his bias. He didn’t want to think Eygló was responsible for Carlotta’s murder. He almost felt that suspecting her was a betrayal of her trust. There was something about her — maybe it was because he had hung on her every word when watching her on TV back in the States. Whatever it was he needed to get a grip. He was being idiotic. Unprofessional. Not something he would admit to Vigdís.

Vigdís turned to the computer on her desk and tapped away. ‘Well, it’s true she was on Twitter a lot that day. I can’t tell exactly what time from her feed now, but it should be possible to check.’

‘But she could have tweeted from her phone in a vehicle on the way to or from Glaumbaer?’

‘Yes, if she borrowed Einar’s car,’ Vigdís said. ‘And if she did use her phone, we should get location information from the phone companies.’

‘That might take them a couple of days.’ They were still waiting for the location report for Carlotta’s phone. ‘Get Árni on to it.’

‘What time are they coming, Grammy?’

Kelly sipped her coffee and watched a group of five Icelandic horses and their riders glide along the sweep of empty beach outside the hotel, their manes flowing in the breeze. She and her grandmother had arrived the night before after a long drive from Reykjavík. The Hótel Búdir stood all alone on the edge of a lava field overlooking the sea — alone apart from a tiny chapel. It was a gorgeous spot.

Her grandmother checked her watch. ‘Oh, I think in about fifteen minutes.’

‘Are they going to film here?’

‘Not precisely here,’ said her grandmother. ‘At Ólafsvík on the other side of Snaefellsnes, just over those mountains, and I think one or two other places around here. Gudrid was brought up at Laugarbrekka, a farm just beneath the volcano, and it’s rumoured Columbus stayed not far from Ólafsvík.’

‘I think that’s so cool,’ said Kelly. ‘Imagine him all the way up here.’

‘Yes,’ said her grandmother absently. She sipped her own coffee. ‘Kelly, dear?’

‘Yes?’

‘Would you mind leaving me alone for an hour or so?’

‘I’m happy to see them,’ Kelly said. ‘In fact, I’d like to.’

‘Yes, I know, but this is a private conversation.’

‘Private?’ Kelly frowned. A week or so after her grandmother had been interviewed in Nantucket by the Anglo-Icelandic film crew, the old lady had announced that she wanted to visit Iceland one last time, and had asked Kelly to accompany her. Kelly had been staying with her in ’Sconset all summer, working in the village store, and was due back at her college in Ohio for her senior year. But she thought she could just about get away with it. Also, she had only been to Europe once before, and Grammy was paying.

It had been difficult to find a hotel room in Reykjavík, but Nancy’s travel agent had eventually managed it, and they had arrived in the capital two days earlier. Kelly had loved the little city with its jumble of brightly coloured houses with their tin roofs, and the playful art everywhere you looked. Then Grammy had made a mysterious phone call and announced that they were going up to Snaefellsnes to meet the people who were making the documentary about Gudrid.

And now Grammy wanted to meet them alone. Something was up and Kelly had no idea what.

Grammy nodded. ‘Private.’

Kelly opened her mouth to protest. Her grandmother stared her down. They got on very well, and Kelly had loved staying in ’Sconset with her these last two summers, but every now and then Grammy could be quite imperious. This was one of those moments. Argument was pointless.

‘Take a walk through the lava field. As I remember it, it’s beautiful.’

Ever the dutiful granddaughter, Kelly did as she was told. And it was beautiful, patches of long summer grass shimmering in the golden sunshine. A perfect volcano rose above the lava to the west, crowned by a white topping of snow. Kelly picked her way along a narrow path through a frozen tumult of black lava, between eerie shapes that evoked large hounds, or crows, or trolls’ heads. The chapel was surrounded by a graveyard and a little white gate. Unfortunately, the church itself was locked.

She pressed on further into the lava field, through the ruins of a small village, the inhabitants of which were presumably slumbering in the churchyard behind her. The air was fresh, the sky was blue and the sea shushed against the lava a few feet away from the path. Kelly felt her irritation with her grandmother disperse.

Nancy Fishburn had five grandchildren, of whom Kelly was the youngest and, Kelly thought, the favourite. Kelly had lapped up her grandmother’s stories about medieval Europe and the Vikings, and she had read Nancy’s book about Gudrid the Wanderer when she was fifteen. Inspired by her grandmother, she was now majoring in history, taking every medieval course she could. She had been excited when the TV crew had descended on Nantucket to interview Grammy and also to hear about the Columbus letter and the wampum find in Greenland. She had seen Eygló in Viking Queens on TV, and had chatted to her on Nantucket, where the presenter had been really friendly. So Kelly was offended at being excluded now.